


Everlasting scars

by Luna_sharp618



Series: Hazbin Hotel Ficlets [2]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor hates the church, Blood, Gen, Gore, Implied Serial Killings, Improper use of thread, I’m not sure what to tag this as, Magic, Scars, Self Harm, Voodoo, Voodoo dolls, drinking ones own blood, he’s not suicidal he just likes pain, it’s just creepy and gory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 07:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18090413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_sharp618/pseuds/Luna_sharp618
Summary: Clutched in his firm grip is a doll. A little, hand stitched doll made out of greying deer hide and lined by leathery catgut thread (gloriously sourced from the intestines of that tired little donkey that lived outside of Mr Dent’s residence). The tiny doll is also furnished with two shiny red buttons to imitate eyes as well as a thatch of brown human hair- his hair. Cut when he was twelve and needle pointed it right into the velvety plushness of the figure’s scalp





	Everlasting scars

**Author's Note:**

> As the tags say this story contains a lot of gore and blood as well as Alastor being very creepy and weird, so read with caution. 
> 
> ALSO please take a look at planetundersiege ‘s work ‘Something Beautiful’ that was made in inspiration to my precious Alastor fic. It is gorgeous and amazingly creepy and just so wonderful 💜

The fire is warm against his chilled skin. 

It crackles and burns idly in it’s stony hearth like that of a well trained dragon, brooding silently with the occasional snap of splintering wood just to raise awareness to its presence. The small embers singeing yet another ugly charcoal burn into the cheap pattern. 

His mother would be appalled- she’d probably start drinking or something as equally mundane to drown away the utterly stupid display of anger toward his negligence. 

He cant help the smile that graces his face at the thought. 

He’s not sure what his father would think. Probably something as equally human. 

Snugly, he lounges in the sweet embrace of his alligator skin armchair, dressed down to rolled up shirtsleeves and soaks in the loving blaze of the tamed embers. The warm glow liken to the soft candle light that suffocated him when his simply ghastly mother would drag him to midnight mass to seek salvation. Where he’d sit and listen to the frightened people bleat about their troubles like fattened sheep grouped together for safety- or slaughter. 

A dark, velvety chuckle is pulled from deep with his cavernous soul. They’re all just so simple and boring and scared and-and-and monotonous! It’s so hilarious to watch them go about their little lives: buying things, selling things, creating things, fearing things… 

There is never a word for things they fear. It’s just nameless. Like a whisper travelling upon the wind, pushed forward by the sinful fornication of candle lit gossip and the shouts of the loudest man in the room. 

That in itself is hilarious. For he has a name- yet he is the one they fear most of all. 

He is unforeseeable death.

Clutched in his firm grip is a doll. A little, hand stitched doll made out of greying deer hide and lined by leathery catgut thread (gloriously sourced from the intestines of that tired little donkey that lived outside of Mr Dent’s residence). The tiny doll is also furnished with two shiny red buttons to imitate eyes as well as a thatch of brown human hair- his hair. Cut when he was twelve and needle pointed it right into the velvety plushness of the figure’s scalp. 

He grins down at it with hooded eyes and mute fascination. 

He really does have to remember to congratulate his mother on being such a marvellous tailor when he visits her grave- Somewhere out there in the woods, half eaten by coyotes and other little parasitical swamp monsters.

That wonderful feeling of unbridled joy bubbles forth uncontrollably beneath his veneer smirk at the mere thought of her disturbed rest. 

Littered across the trinket’s textured body are multiple red stitches embedded into the cloth flesh. They are etched into every possible expanse of the doll’s body like simple tattoos, some sweetly criss-crossing up the toy’s skin in intricate patterns and others violent hashings of red lines attacking the same spot over and over and over again. 

Perfectly identical to the raised lines of flesh that trail down is bare forearms. They sit beneath his own blistered skin like tense cords of piano wire, ready to be plucked and played with to his own musical desires. He beams down at the surgical disfigurements with a glare akin to carnal hunger, baring pearly teeth at the overwhelming rush of pure, unconfined happiness that pulses through him. 

Gently, he cascades his thumb down the bumpy expanse of the doll’s fibrous textile, feeling the mirrored action run down his own tortured skin, smoothing over the scars with foreign intimacy. The sensation soothes his jumped up nerves- grounds him to the gentle caress of magic that plays across goose pimpled flesh.

Promptly, he digs the nail of his thumb under a fresh cord of crimson thread, wiggling it loose, tugging at it’s bindings with masochistic glee. Within his own arm the invisible cord is pulled and played with- wriggling underneath his flesh, knocking against tendons and rubbing over raw veins. It’s exquisite. So breathtakingly painful. So blindingly intoxicating. 

He can't help but keep his eyes transfixed to the lurid sight of the cord churning about under his skin like a scavenging leech, roving around in a bloodied wonderland. Ruthlessly he continues to jab his thumb deeper under the red thread, brutally jerking it loose- the fresh ones are always the most delightful to play with; the nerve endings eager to send panicked jolts of electricity to his malicious brain. 

He’s so hot-wired on the beautiful agony that stabs through him that it takes him a while to realise that he’s crying. Tears brim in the smile-crinkled corners of his eyes, running freely down his gaunt face as the pain fills him with the sweet tang of immersive ecstasy. Like he’s floating. 

Or drowning. 

This is what it must be like for them. Those ordinary little people with their ordinary little lives that just love to bumble about pretending to be innocent. This is what it must feel like when they repent. When they whisper their precious secrets to the voracious ears of the church. This is what the false sensation of salvation must feel like as they beg on their knees akin to the actions of drowsy harlots that frequent the shadows. 

Another chorus of uncontrollable cackling bubbles from deep within him. 

Harder he pulls at the knitted flesh, taking great joy in seeing his skin become irritated and raw with rash-red hives. He’ll draw blood soon. He can feel it in the pins-and-needles type sensation that flows through him with every sharp tug of the thread. His hairs standing on end as the magic envelops him like radio static on abandoned stations, swallowing him whole, blocking out his senses and forcing him to just breath in the itchy buzzing that clouds the atmosphere. 

He’s positively vibrating with it. Shivering with the pure electricity that binds him to this moment and chains him to this little doll.

The high strung cord is finally stripped far enough from the toys fabric skin to rip across feeble tendons and crush sensitive ropes of veins. The pain he feels is indescribable- in both anguish and euphoria. Tears still roll freely down his cheeks as his long nail proceeds to incessantly twist the tight thread. Fat beads of salty water dribble from his pointed chin comparable to that of a rabid dog foaming at the mouth with such manic desire to maim anything with a pulse. 

Finally the first brazen bubble of crimson blood spills over as his skin begins to split like a rotten banana peel, exposing his tender insides that squirm and wriggle so perfectly. He watches it roll down the mangled curve of his forearm like a child observing the fascinating scuttle of an ant that just so happened to cross their thunderous path. The shocking juxtaposition between his pallid flesh and the bold maroon of the fresh blood cascading from the gory laceration sends a shiver of carnivorous arousal down his spine. 

Without hesitation he brings the wounded flesh to the inviting warmth of his open mouth. Instantly his tongue runs across the jagged strip of weeping crimson and closes his eyes in euphoria as he feeds his primordial lust. The musty flavour of fresh blood bursts across his abstract pallet, sending a ripple of lewd satisfaction through his ravenous core as he laps greedily at the thick ambrosias. His tongue roving deep into the cavernous wound, poking at the upset nerves and raw tissues, his thumb still continuing to play with the thread- manipulating it to run across his lips and invading tongue. 

Is this what kissing feels like? 

He had seen many versions of the vile act in the picture shows, when the man finally wins the woman of his dreams and they celebrate in the most lewd way possible. It’s disgustingly primal. Passing saliva and other nasty little things between their ravenous melding of mouths- so basic and impersonal. It’s positively hateful. 

This however is far more intimate. The way his flesh yields so beautifully under his own ministrations. He can only ever get this reaction from himself, a willing component to allow him to drink from the blood of a beating heart. All the others run away and die. 

It’s extremely tedious. 

When he’s had his fill of the sweet sensations and is overwhelmed by the crackling buzz of static magic which shrouds him in a thick cloud, does he pull away from the fine laceration. The skin around it is blotchy and sore with a cold chill of his cooling saliva as the wound continues to dribble pathetic little droplets- the magic already beginning to knit his flesh back together. It will scar nicely. A fine little scratch to match his collection, a new masterpiece to his mangled body. 

After a moment he finally relinquishes his firm grip under the thread, easing the doll out of his iron hold. He hasn’t even been aware that he had been crushing his lungs in the arduous process of self-satisfaction. 

Fresh air hits him like a brick to the face, forcing him to enjoy the thick burn of oxygen down his tortured windpipe and pool betwixt his aching lungs. The prickling paresthesia that lingers under his irritated flesh begins to recede like bats caught in the sunlight and soon he will be left feeling empty once more. 

Soon he’ll be starving and desperate for another burning brand against his abused flesh until it’s positively maddening. 

He straightens his spine with a glorious crack of shrieking vertebrae while the pain of his weeping wound frustratingly numbs. He sits in thought, pondering about what to do next as he looks down at the little doll staring right back at him. It’s ruby eyes glare up at him with keen blankness. Together they engage in a silent conversation of matched intellect, planning on a way to satisfy their twin cravings. 

Perhaps the new florist; the young brunette thing that smiles so sweetly at him as he smells the fresh roses on his morning commute through town. Or maybe the baker’s son, his eyes have most definitely wandered past the pleasures of loving thy neighbour when he enters for his daily bread; he will most assuredly be an eager little lamb led to slaughter. 

The psychopath contemplates these options for an indeterminate amount of time, eyes forever locked with the demanding gaze of the doll that sits beside him, frozen in an intimate debate of insatiable needs. It is hours before he a shakes himself of such dark allures and takes his leave for the recording booth that resides in the cellar. 

Completely ignorant of the dead fire as he passes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> I liked exploring a bit more into the darkness of alastors behaviours and though processes in this fic, especially dipping into his asexuality which was mainly due to making him an outlet to voice my own asexual experiences and ideas. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are much appreciated and if you liked the story please think about following me on Twitter (Luna_bamboona), Instagram (brace_for_the_ace_) and tumblr (Bill-And-Till) for updates on upcoming fics and my art!!! 💜💜💜


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